A Lesson in Flying
by floatingxworld
Summary: A little bit of dumb luck can lead to the most extraordinary opportunities. This is set sometime soon after Krum arrives at Hogwarts to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Written for fictactoe 1.6 Rome wasn't built in a day.


_**"There's no one like Krum! He's like a bird the way he rides the wind! He's more than an athlete... he's an artist."**_** – Ron Weasley (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (movie))**

Notes:  
><em>Da<em>, means 'yes' in Bulgarian.

It was sometimes remarkable how one found themselves in certain situations, and sometimes, the most remarkable things happened because of a bit of dumb luck. In the case of Ronald Billius Weasley, dumb luck was as natural a process as breathing. It was in a manner such as this that Ron came to know his longtime idol, the Bulgarian Quidditch sensation, Viktor Krum.

Ron had decided that even with the cancelling of the entire Quidditch season, he was not going to stop training. Two months of summer holidays was not going to get him in top physical shape to try out for the Gryffindor team next year, and just because Harry was too busy with the tournament to help him, it didn't mean Ron, himself, couldn't practice. His dreams of flying, wearing the red and gold robes of his house, wouldn't die so easily. Even if it meant rising with the sun, not something Ron was known for, or, truthfully speaking, overly fond of, he would train.

For Ron's efforts to rouse himself at an ungodly hour, however, there would be a reward. Not the charmed bucket of water over his bed that finally awakened him from blissful slumber to a shivering mess of soaked flannel PJs and sopping bed sheets, but in the form of one very familiar burly Bulgarian.

Who knew that his idol liked to practice flying at the break of dawn? The same time of day when the first rays of light were just peaking their way through the tips of the Forbidden Forest, slowly creeping over the top tiers of the Quidditch pitch stands. Really, who would have guessed that that particular morning, Viktor would arrive on the pitch at the exact same moment as Ron himself? It was dumb luck really.

After an awkward exchange of 'good mornings,' Ron was left standing on the ground, red-faced and mouth agape as Krum, his idol, shot up into the air, starting to fly slow, wide circles around the pitch. After completing a few warm-up laps of the playing field, Ron watched, enthralled, as the older teen executed a series of complex maneuvers. Ron had never seen anything so beautiful. The way Krum moved, one with his broom, like they were one in the very same, a bird soaring across the sky, riding the wind with such ease and grace that those watching him couldn't help but be moved by the sight. Ron didn't care how many times his siblings or friends teased him about his so-called man crush – Krum was inspiring!

To the average person, Viktor Krum was an intimidating figure, not necessarily because of his skill and fame, but more to do with the permanent scowl that seemed to be painted on his craggy features. At over six feet, he was an imposing figure, even with shoulders rolled forward into a semi-permanent hunch. Slim, with a full head of inky cropped hair, he had a large hooked nose, black eyes, over which sat thick dark brows and a flat compressed mouth, more often than not pressed into a thin firm line.

Ron, however, when he looked at Krum, saw more than just a string of unfortunate physical traits, heightened by a rather grumpy-looking disposition. Perhaps it was because he was such an avid fan that he had the ability to do this, but whatever the reason, where others saw an intimidating physical form, Ron only saw a big barrel chest and well-muscled legs that only intense endurance training for Quidditch could have brought him. Krum's height would allow him to capture the snitch with ease; his long strong arms provided a fortunate advantage. The dark intelligent eyes, hidden beneath prominent brows, always seemed to gleam when Ron suspected Krum was two steps ahead of his opponents. For Ron, Krum was everything he aspired to become: a strong, incredibly brilliant Quidditch player, and most importantly well respected and rich.

Ten minutes later Ron was still standing there, in much the same position, when the man he'd been admiring with such adoration suddenly swerved his broom toward him in an accelerated dive. Ron clenched his eyes shut and ducked, only seconds later to peek up over his elbow and watch Krum pull up and land softly directly in front of him.

"Vhat is dee problem? You catching dee flies for breakfast? Vhat are you doing?" Victor was left wondering if Ron might be rather ill and in need of medical attention, because surely, one's face should not match the colour of one's hair, or if perhaps he might be deaf because accent or not, he was speaking English and he'd repeated his question four times now.

"Uh… you know… flying?" Ron stammered, face aflame, not being able to believe Krum was communicating with him, face to face, in the flesh! He'd never been so close to him before, let alone speaking to him, the whole thing was just too surreal and Ron was having a hard time focusing.

One bushy eyebrow shot upwards, "On dee ground?"

"Well… uh no… I was just… you know," shrugging helplessly Ron finally admitted, "Watching you practice. That last move was bloody brilliant. You know the roll you did? That would be a right fine way of distracting the other team, you know, if someone passed you the quaffle right at the end of that last spin you did. Keeper'd have no chance saving it!"

"Ah… dee wand in your pocket?" Vicktor's brow drew together making them seem more like one continuous line as he thought back to the aforementioned move. "I s'ppose it could be used for dat, da." He admitted somewhat impressed at the insight the gangly ginger haired youth had shown.

"Is that what you call it?" Loosening up some now that they were onto a more familiar topic that wasn't calling attention to his blatant fanboy staring, Ron grinned, "It was bloody brilliant mate!"

Slightly uncomfortable with the praise, Viktor shrugged. "I don't know about dat… I vas just flying."

"You don't just fly, you soar!" Realizing what he'd just blurted out, embarrassed, Ron busied himself with needlessly inspecting his broom.

Coughing to cover up his own discomfiture at the other boy's keen admiration, Viktor sighed, wondering dishearteningly if he shouldn't give up this morning practice altogether. Lately everywhere he went in the castle gaggles of dreamy-eyed girls – and a few boys – would follow him around like little lost house elves. It had gotten to the point he could hardly concentrate in classes, nor on the clues for the tournament without some charmed gift or love poem popping up on his desk or be hurriedly thrust into his arms.

The worst though, was the endless sighing. It came whenever he walked down the hall, bit into an apple at lunch or even blew his nose; long drawn-out breathy exhalations that left him wanting to curse the whole lot of them. It was beyond ridiculous and Viktor was running out of places he could safely hide without secluding himself in his room 24/7. He'd all but given up flying after the first week; five girls had ended up in Madame Pomfrey's after colliding with each other, too busy watching him, rather than were they were going. Not wanting to be a flying hazard Viktor had abandoned his broom before anyone else was hurt.

But, the itch to fly had been too great to ignore, he needed it like he needed food and water – it was in his blood. The rush of racing through the air, wind blowing in his face, darting in and out of low puffy clouds, made him relax. His troubles would float away until he was stress-free and feeling normal, not some famous Quidditch star everyone wanted to either be or be seen with. Finally, after three agonizing weeks he'd given in, and under the dim cover of early morning darkness he very carefully snuck out to fly a few laps without the added commotion his fame had brought him.

Initially, upon seeing another figure down at the pitch, huddled against side of the stands, seemingly looking over their broom, he'd been leery. After approaching cautiously, the outline of a person had materialized into that of a rather lanky teen with a vibrant shock of flaming hair, equally startled expression on his face at seeing another person up at this early hour. Not recognizing the other from his group of followers, because certainly he would have remembered orange hair, he'd deemed it safe to try and fly. Now, he wasn't quite so sure. However, when the other boy did nothing more than fiddle with his broom and repeatedly rub the back of his neck, his face once again matching his colourful hair, he relaxed his guard and stuck out his hand. "I'm Viktor Krum by the way."

"You're having me on right? Of course I know who you are!" At Viktor's serious, but slightly confused expression – he obviously was _not_joking – Ron thrust out his own hand, sweaty palm meeting Viktor's vice like grip. "I'm Weasley… err, Ron, that is." Stammering lamely as Viktor pumped their hands up and down vigorously several times, leaving Ron feeling like he'd been exchanging pleasantries with the Whomping Willow instead of the international Quidditch star.

"Nice to meet you Veasley. You play?" Krum's head inclined slightly towards Ron's broom.

Self-conscious, Ron nodded, moving the well-used hand-me-down behind his back and out of Krum's line of sight. He hoped the other boy wouldn't notice how inferior his Shooting Star broom was in comparison to Krum's own expensive top of the line model. "Yes. Well, err… no… next year, I hope."

"Ah…," Krum trailed off uncertainly, not knowing what to make of the answer.

"I'm training actually." Ron clarified, embarrassed, realizing his previous statement hadn't made all that much sense.

"Ah! Den ve should train together, da?" Krum mounted his broom, hovering just off the ground, looking to Ron and waiting expectantly for him to do the same. He was obviously eager to get in the air.

Blinking, unsure if he'd heard the other correctly or not, Ron repeated the question in his head a few dozen times, assuring himself, that yes, Viktor Krum had just asked him, Ron Weasley, to train with him. Was he still asleep in dreamland? In what lifetime would he be lucky enough to not only meet his idol, but have him ask to train with him? Surely this was a hallucination of some kind. However, when Krum repeated the question, more slowly and in a louder voice as if Ron might be hard of hearing, he realized that no, this was not some figment of his boyish fantasy, but reality.

Giving Krum a jerky nod in agreement, Ron stumbled as he threw his leg over his broom, a jumble of nerves at having his idol watch him. Once he had secured himself in position, avoiding eye contact with Krum and praying that the other teen hadn't been watching too closely, he took a few deep breaths before lifting off.

It was an unsteady start, as he wobbled and dipped to the left violently, righting himself and blasting off with such speed that Viktor thought he might have been aiming to land on the moon. Dark brows shot into his hairline as Viktor watched Weasley rocket upwards, concern growing rapidly as the younger boy failed to level off. Directing his broom skywards, Viktor raced after the red-haired blur. Fishing his wand out of his robe pocket he took aim, firing off a spell to steady the broom and its rider. Pulling up beside Weasley his eyes raked over the teen making sure he wasn't hurt or injured, but other than his skin tone once again matching his vibrant hair he seemed to be perfectly fine, even managing to give Viktor a weak smile of thanks.

Pocketing his wand, Viktor tipped his head at Weasley, letting one side of his thin lips curl upwards in a rare half-smile, "Dat was quite dee blastoff. Like Volcano eruption, da?" The quiet amusement was clear even under the thick Bulgarian accent. "Come, now dat you are stable let's fly! Ve go slow, da?"

They spent the next twenty minutes flying painfully slow loops around the field, Viktor throwing out basic pointers that had Ron becoming more mortified and increasingly insecure by the minute. His broom, as if sensing his nervousness, was skittish, every now and then swerving and bucking, almost as if it'd been hit with a Hurling Hex.

Turning to Krum after his broom had once again tried to unseat him, this time by performing a series of wild loop-de-loops in which Krum had had to once again come to his rescue; Ron's shoulders slumped into shameful defeat. "I think I ought to call it a day."

Viktor seemed surprised. "You give up?"

"I'm not exactly doing so well am I?"

"Nonsense," Viktor scoffed, barrel rolling underneath Ron coming up on his other side to point out, "You are too tense. Maybe too excited, da? See look dere," he indicated Ron's choke-hold grip, knuckles gone white with effort to maintain control of his broom. "Your hands—dey are gripping your shaft too tight, da."

Ron nearly fell off his broom, letting out a strangled squeak. "My what?"

"Your shaft? I say de word right?" Viktor made a strange face. "Shhhh aaafff ttt. I say right." He pointed to the handle of his broomstick, "Dis, here."

"Uuuh," Ron made an awkward noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, you mean the broom's handle."

Viktor shrugged his shoulders not at all bothered by Ron's odd reaction to his choice of wording. "You know vhat I mean. You grip your handle too tight. Your knuckles are choking broom. He cannot breath." Edging his broom closer to Weasley's, "Look here Veasley," he motioned once again to his own Firebolt, "See? Look at how gently I hold him, how softly I caress him."

Blinking, Ron eyed Viktor not entirely certain what the other meant. He wasn't entirely clear how flying in a straight line and caressing were related to each other. Maybe it was a Bulgarian thing? "I uh… don't understand."

"Close your eyes," At Ron's skeptical look, Viktor repeated the encouragement until blue eyes reluctantly gave in and shut. "Yes, go on. Listen to my voice – do vhat I say, da." Easing his Firebolt even closer, so that their knees were touching, Viktor leaned over a hand dropping onto Ron's shoulder and pulling him backwards, "Dere we go, sit up straight now. Ve want to be erect, da." Hands moved downwards to his backside, "Be strong here, pull tight. In dee front too, da." Krum patted Ron's stomach, indicating he wanted him to hold his posture more securely.

As awkward and uncomfortable as his current situation made him, what with Krum's hands constantly touching him, manipulating his body and that smooth rumbling voice whispering in his ear, Ron could feel himself relaxing, the deep baritone beside him lulling the tension away, allowing his body to loosen and fall under the spell of Krum's hypnotic voice. His broom seemed to settle beneath him, the fishtailing subsiding until he was riding the wind as smoothly as he always did.

As he looped around Ron, inspecting him from all angles, Viktor nodded his encouragement. "Da, da. Dat's it. Much better you see?"

Ron opened his eyes and realized they'd almost completed another loop of the field, this time without any death defying stunts from him and his broomstick. Glancing down he noticed his knuckles had lost their whiteness, his back straighter and body more relaxed. "Hey. Thanks mate."

Shrugging off the thanks and avoiding eye contact, Viktor, much to Ron's appreciation, swiftly changed the conversations direction "So, vhat team do you su'pport Veasley?" He gave the other teen a quick glance from the corner of his eye.

"Chudley Canons, of course! You know, I really think the Canons might make it this year."

"Ha!" Viktor snorted, letting off a loud guffaw. "Pipe dreams, my dear friend, pipe dreams! I follow de English teams a little, but Canons vill never make it to play offs, of dis I know. Holy Head Harpies, now dey, dey have a chance. Maybe Tornados vill make de semi-finals."

"Tornados? Tornados don't stand a chance in hell!" Forgetting all his previous embarrassments, Ron proceeded into a lengthy animated speech on why the Tornados wouldn't be qualifying for anything this year, due to shoddy tactics and a few weak links among the players.

Viktor shook his head and opened his mouth to retort when their little debate was interrupted as Ron's stomach grumbled audibly.

Patting his stomach Ron tossed Viktor a quick grin. "Guess it's nearly breakfast then." It was too bad really, as Ron had just relaxed enough to begin enjoying himself. A lively Quidditch debate was always something that could put him in a good mood and he found himself feeling a bit disappointed as the older Bulgarian flying next to him agreed, even though he knew Krum was right.

"Da, ve should head back, ve do not vant to be late for dee classes."

Angling their brooms towards the ground Ron prayed that his broom wouldn't act up again and at least allow him to perform a decent landing. Almost as soon as he thought it, his broom veered sending him spiraling towards the ground, a quick stabilization spell from Viktor and his own dumb luck the only thing keeping him from plowing straight into the earth.

Once on the ground, dizzy from his whirlwind landing, Ron yelped as he tripped off his broom only to be steadied by a strong hand on his shoulder. Mumbling a curt thanks, he grabbed his broom from where it'd fallen. He turned to head back to the castle, part of him wanting to flee, crawl into a hole and hide for the rest of his natural life. Krum fell easily into step beside him, crushing Ron's hopes of an escape. He was pretty sure a toddler could have flown better than him this morning – no he was bloody certain a toddler would have flown better. Red-faced, he looked to the side, away from Krum.

"Great, just great, way to go Ron," he muttered to himself, "Couldn't even bloody land right!" This was the shoddiest display of flying he could ever recall demonstrating. He'd even managed to fly better that one winter he'd caught a mild case of the Howlergoit, and much to his mum's displeasure insisted on flying in the annual Weasley winter holidays Quidditch match they used to have before Bill went off to work in Egypt, Charlie moved to study in Romania and Percy became even more of a prat than he was and refused to join in any more.

"Vhat you were saying?"

Ron's head jerked around too absorbed in his own shame to remember Krum was still following him. "Oh… that is…" Ron pulled up suddenly, Krum stopping beside him his features tightening in what might have been a quite menacing face had it not been for the concerned look in his dark eyes. Shoulders sagged downwards, his free hand absently rubbing at the back of his neck and he avoided looking his idol directly. "I'm complete rubbish."

At Krum's blank look Ron sighed, elaborating, "At flying. I'm complete rubbish at flying."

"Vhy do you say dat? You have a good knowledge of dee game, da, you are rough but—I dink, you vill be good player vid practice."

Ear tips turning hot from the unexpected compliment Ron shook his head, "Not like Charlie, my brother, he's a great flyer, everyone's always on about how he's such a natural." Ron scuffed the toe of his shoe against the ground. "Hell, even my baby sister's a better flier than I am."

Unsure of what kind of reassurance he should give the other teen, Viktor thought back to the words his father had told him when he was just a boy. Placing a large hand on Ron's shoulder, black eyes bore into bright blue. "Dings like flying and being a star Quidditch player, dey don't 'appen overnight."

"No… I suppose they don't," Ron conceded slowly, averting his eyes from the intense gaze to the hand on his shoulder.

Retracting his hand quickly and stuffing it in his robe pocket, Viktor lifted his broad shoulders into an uneasy shrug, "Besides, it only matters dat you are 'aving fun. It's fun, da?"

"True… It was—_is_fun." Thinking back Ron realized it hadn't all been that bad. He had learned some stuff and his flying had improved as he'd relaxed, not to mention talking tactics with Krum had been right fun. Besides, how many other people he knew could say they'd flown with one and only famous Bulgarian international Quidditch star? None! Pride still hurt, but for the moment properly soothed over with a compliment and some encouragement from his idol, Ron didn't noticed the Bulgarian's confident posture deflating, shoulder curling forward making him look more withdrawn and younger than his seventeen years.

"Thanks mate! You're right, I won't give up – just keep practice till I can make the team."

"Vee could…" Viktor paused hesitantly, taking a minute to study his shoes, as if unsure how to procedure with what he had started to say, or even if he should continue. Coming to a decision he breathed deeply, inclining his head in Ron's direction, "…try dis again den, da?"

The open ended question hung in the air for a few moments, Ron pausing to digest the question, its meaning, and the sincerity of the offer. Taking in the Bulgarian's bent posture, averted gaze, and cheeks tinged, just a tad bit red, Ron had his answer.

Ron's smile turning up the corners of his mouth, the tips of his ears matching the pink of Viktor's cheeks, "I think… I could go for that."

Together, they turned headed back for the castle, Ron with and extra spring to his step, Viktor standing just a tad bit straighter than usual. They were about half-way back when Krum cleared his throat to catch Ron's attention asking seriously, "'Ave you ever dought of trying for keeper?"


End file.
